


These Dreams, This House

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-09
Updated: 2001-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Dreams, This House

_He stands on a hill with his wife. She wears a yellow dress and offers him an apple. He bites into it, but it is filled with wasps. They swarm from his open mouth, thousands of wasps, their wings slick with his saliva._

Greg woke with a start, the sheets twisted around his neck. He pushed them away irritably and ran his tongue around his mouth, checking to see that nothing was there, and felt even more annoyed that he felt the need to check.

He shook his head and squinted at the clock. It was ten forty-five. He guessed it was morning.

_Oh fuck, I'm gonna miss the plane._

He jumped out of bed, grabbed his glasses and dressed hurriedly, cursing himself all the while. Eleven forty-five flight to London, factor in maybe half an hour of driving to LAX…aw, fuck.

He dragged his fingers through his hair. Jennifer was probably already in her studio; she was putting up an art show in two weeks and she’d been working nonstop. Her studio was at the other end of the house. He might have time to run down there and say goodbye before he took off. He looked at the clock again. It was eleven. Goddamnit.

He scribbled a note to her and stuck it on her side of the bed. _Jennifer - Overslept. Running off to London. Call you when I get to Richard's. Love, G._

He shouldered his bag and went out to the car, muttering.

"You've still got almost two hours before the plane leaves," the ticket agent said.

"What?" Greg said.

"The plane doesn't leave until one forty-five."

He'd misread the time on the ticket. Fucking great. He could have said goodbye to Jennifer, after all. He took the boarding pass the ticket agent gave him and headed off to get coffee, suppressing a yawn.

He couldn't say exactly when he'd started sleeping badly, but it seemed that for the past month or so he'd spend nights either staring up at the ceiling or twisted up in the sheets, struggling against the nightmares. Half the time Jennifer didn't get any sleep either. But then, she'd been busy getting her show together; she'd taken to going to bed after him and getting up before he was awake. Sometimes she slept on a couch she had in her studio.

He'd been pleased when she'd started to focus more on her artwork, a year ago. She'd been an accomplished artist when he first met her, already with a few gallery shows under her belt. Then, when they'd gotten married, she'd drifted away from that, and her art became more of a hobby. "I'm the wife of a comedian," she'd said. "That's a full-time job in itself."

So it came as somewhat of a surprise to him when they'd been driving home after one of his gigs and she'd turned to him and said, "You know, I think I miss painting. I'd like to take it up again, just so I know how rusty I am."

And she was good, good enough to put up her own show with one of the small art galleries in town. "Rent your own space, put up your own stuff," she'd said. "This is glamorous, isn't it?"

The only trouble was that they didn't see each other much anymore, what with her fielding phone calls from the gallery owner and spending all her spare time painting and his own gig schedule. It looked like he was going to have to miss her show, because he had to be in New York for a week after he got back from London. He missed his wife.

When he staggered off the plane twelve hours later and headed into Customs, his ears were clogged and he badly needed a cigarette. *I'm getting too old for this.*

Customs breezed him through, he rented a car and headed to Richard’s flat. The English sky was light blue; the sunlight beamed down unobtrusively, polite and diffident. Once he got into central London, he'd get distracted by the dirt on the buildings and streets, so it was best to take in the beauty while he could.

At least he was staying in an actual flat with an actual person he knew, instead of locking himself in a hotel room for five days and feeling like he was trapped in an isolation chamber. Richard had just moved into a bigger place with a guest room and had invited him to stay while he was with the Players.

He dialed Richard's number on his cell phone and got an answering machine. "Hello, you've reached the Vranch residence." Richard's low, gentle English accent sounded comfortingly familiar. "I'm not in, so leave a message at the tone."

"Hey, dude," Greg said. He always found himself laying the California-isms on thick in England; only in England could a West Coast accent be considered exotic and charming. "It's me. I just got out of the airport and I'm heading over. There better be booze."

Richard was living in North London now, on one of the unbelievably narrow streets that Greg had never gotten used to. Luckily it had a garage. He pulled in, grabbed his bag and headed to the front door.

No one was home. He checked the address that he’d written down: all seemed to be in order. He glanced down at the door again. There was a note.

_Greg - Gone to the shops. Back shortly. Let yourself in. Richard_

Greg took the note from the door and tried the knob. Locked. This was typical. Greg sighed, put his bag down and sat on the doorstep, waiting.

He finally saw someone coming around the corner, carrying a paper bag. Greg smiled and waved.

"I thought I left the door open," Richard said.

"I tried the knob or whatever; it didn't open."

"Here, take these." Richard came up the path and handed him the groceries. Greg peered into the bag.

"Huh. What'd you get?"

Richard didn't answer; he was trying the door. "Well. It is locked, isn't it?"

"I kind of figured. What are these things, crackers?"

Richard opened the door and turned back with a sheepish smile. "I did everything to make things pleasant, I just forgot to unlock the door. Were you waiting long?"

Greg shook his head. Richard picked up Greg's bag from the doorstep. "Come on in then. I'll show you the kitchen."

Richard led him inside. The house was decorated in an odd mixture of English Victorian furniture and vaguely South American colors; red and yellow abounded. Richard laid Greg's bag down in the hall, took the groceries and gestured for him to follow.

The kitchen was a mix of white linoleum and steel. Greg leaned in the doorway as Richard put the groceries down on the countertop and then turned around.

"Good to see you, Greg." Richard gave him a hug.

"You too. How are you, buddy?"

"Can't complain." Richard took a step back and appraised him critically. "You've widened a bit since I saw you last."

Greg shrugged. "I keep forgetting I don't have the same metabolism as when I was a kid. You can't sit on your ass all day and smoke dope without gaining a few pounds." He patted his stomach. "Very anti-Hollywood."

"Anything anti-Hollywood can’t be bad. Do you want a cup of tea? I've just got some good black tea from the shop. And some decent bland English food."

"Oh, bland English food. The mouth waters."

"Go sit down, I'll bring it out. Feel free to break something in the living room if you'd like."

Greg laughed. "Sure. I need to call Jennifer anyway, to tell her the plane didn’t crash."

Richard's living room was more red and yellow, with some green thrown in. The couch was covered with a soft Aztec style blanket. Once Greg sat down and took out the cell phone, he remembered the time change; it was two am in Los Angeles, and if his wife was asleep he didn't want to wake her. He put the phone away.

"Is Jennifer going to be joining us soon?" Richard called from the kitchen.

"I don't think so. She's got a show to put up and she's working on that. So it's just you and me, buddy."

"Ahh. A show? Her own?"

"Yeah. Paintings and silkscreen, I think."

"Wow." Richard's voice was appreciative. "Send me the press clippings, will you?"

"When I see them, sure." Greg took his glasses off, put his elbow on the arm of the couch and rested his head in his hand. Maybe his wife would get famous. Maybe she'd get written about in the New York Times or whatever and they could go gallivanting off to New York or Milan and she’d get hounded by paparazzi while he stood back in the shadows holding her coat. She could do a show with the guy, what was his name, the one who cut the cow in half and encased it in plastic or vinyl, it was some sort of thick material, not rubber, that wouldn’t make any sense…

"Greg." Richard’s voice was soft. There was a hand on his shoulder. "Come on."

"Uhhh." Greg said. "Whuzza matter?"

“Greg, you fell asleep. Do you want to lie down?"

"I wasn't asleep," Greg said, forcing his eyes open and putting his glasses back on. "I was just thinking about-stuff."

"Of course," Richard said, smiling. "I always snore when I think, too. If you'd like, your room's the first door on your left, down the hall."

"I do not snore." Greg stood up. "Where'd you say it was?"

"Down the hall, you poor jetlagged bastard. And you do indeed snore."

Greg grumbled in mock annoyance. "I'm sorry about the tea, man."

"Don't worry yourself about it. Get some rest while you can, it's going to be a long day tomorrow."

Greg made his way down the hall. The guest room was high ceilinged, with a large window looking out at rows of houses. He took his glasses off and fell onto the bed. He started to kick off his shoes, but he was asleep before he got the second one off.

He still felt groggy when he woke up. The clock on the bedside table, once he got in close enough that he could see it, said five o’clock. He took out his cell phone and called Jennifer.

He wasn’t expecting to get her; she was probably still locked up in the studio. When the answering machine picked up he said, "Hi, honey, it's just me. I'm in England. Give me a call if you'd like." He paused for half a second and said quietly, "I love you."

He put the phone away. He lit a cigarette and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the cream colored ceiling.

*****

It was good to be back in England, all in all, he thought. It got mildly tiresome trying to do improv on Whose Line? when he was constantly thinking about how he could sneak past the censors. Performing at the Comedy Store meant that he could curse to his heart's content and make literary references without being told he was getting too highbrow, which suited him fine.

He stood at the bar after the show, finishing off his beer. He felt drunk. Actually, he felt beyond drunk, he felt plastered. All the British people around him drank as though alcohol was going out of style, and he always found himself doing double-time just to keep up. He tilted his head and drained the bottle, feeling the alcohol slosh in his stomach.

He took a step back and collided with someone. He heard a short gasp.

"Aw, Christ," Greg said and turned around. "I am so sorry."

The person he had collided with turned out to be a delicately built, red-haired woman in a dark dress, which was soaked with beer. A half empty pint glass was in her hand.

"I’m soaked," she said bitterly. He thought he detected a Scottish burr to her voice. She rubbed her hand over the front of her dress in a futile effort.

Greg grabbed some napkins from the bar and handed them to her. "Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It's all right." She pronounced it 'Eet's aw reet.' Scottish. She looked up for the first time and her eyes widened. "For fuck's sake, you're Greg Proops."

"Sometimes." Greg said.

She rubbed at the beer on her dress, still staring. "I saw the show tonight, you were great." Ah saw the show t'nye, ye weer greet.

"Oh, thanks," Greg said.

"I came down from Edinburgh just to see you play. My flatmates and me think you're the business. You're our favorite comedian."

"Oh." In his drunken state, the flattery had more effect on him than usual. "I bet you say that to everyone who spills a drink on you."

"No, just you," she said and smiled. She had good teeth for a Scot, even and dazzling white. The hand that was wiping off her dress was moving slower and slower, making little circles around her chest.

"What are you drinking? Let me replace that one for you."

"Lager." She moved up alongside him by the bar. "I'm a wee bit drunk now, so you can just disregard half of what comes out of me mouth."

Not sure of what to say, he signaled the barman for another drink. She leaned forward slightly; her breasts were clearly outlined by the wet material of the dress.

"It's good of you to come over here and amuse us," she said. "Are you playing the Festival this year?"

"No, not this year. I'm getting a little too old." The barman gave him a pint glass, lager foaming over the top. He handed it to her.

"You're not too old. We love you there."

His head was beginning to swell from all the adoration. "You've been very flattering…"

"I'm only speaking the truth." The 'last call' bell rang. She looked at him. "Are you going home with anyone tonight?"

This wasn't the first time he’d been hit on. People seemed to think that occasionally being on TV made for instant sex appeal. Greg reached deep into his brain for a response; slowed by jetlag and alcohol, the only one he could come up with was, "Uhh…"

"I'd take you home with me," she said, with a small smile. "I'd make you a nice breakfast."

"I really…don't think…"

"It's not just because you've got all your teeth and your ears are in proportion to your head," she said, her voice low, and put her hands on his shoulders.

The thought that ran through his head was, _She just quoted my act. When did I last use that line?_ She was fussing with his collar now, straightening it, and when she leaned in for a kiss he didn’t push her away.

He could taste the lager and cigarette smoke in her mouth. He raised his hands and let them float above her shoulders.

"Greg!" Richard's voice cut through the haze. Greg broke the kiss and turned. Richard was standing to his side.

"We're leaving now, Greg," he said. To the girl he said, "He's got to call his wife in the morning, we need him at his best."

The word 'wife' snapped Greg back into reality, and he moved away from the girl as if she were on fire. The girl said wistfully, "Goodbye, Greg."

Richard dragged him away from the bar and slapped his shoulder, none too gently. Greg staggered.

"Don't _ever_ do that again, you stupid Yank. Your wife’ll murder me if she ever found out."

"I know, I know, I know. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Let's get out of here, all right." Richard began weaving up the stairs. "Fuck, I'm not as sober as I should be."

"Are we getting a minicab?" Greg said. The night air hit his face; it smelled like hamburgers and car exhaust.

"You think I'm driving?" Richard said. "You've got to be mad." He stumbled. "When did this ground get lumpy?" He dragged Greg in the direction of a minicab.

"Just don't puke on me on the ride back, all right?" Greg said as they got into the backseat.

"I'm holding you to the same promise, mate."

The ride back to the flat was punctuated by Richard's humming 'Brown Eyed Girl' over and over and over again. Staggering up the front walk to Richard’s flat together, Greg said, "I might as well be back in college."

Richard fumbled with his keys unlocking the door. "'Hey, where did we go…'"

"I _hate_ that fucking song, Richard, and you've been singing it for twenty minutes. I think my head's about to explode."

"All right, all right, calm yourself." Richard opened the door. "Want a cup of coffee?"

"I'm goin' to bed."

"I'll see you in the morning then."

Curled up on his side on the bed, Greg felt the room spinning around and around. He fought a wave of nausea. *Okay, dinner, stay down. C'mon, Proops. Just shut your eyes and lie very, very still. Just stay very, very, very still and nothing will happen.* The room began to spin slower. He took a couple of deep breaths. He fell asleep.

_He is in a doctor’s office, doubled over in pain. The doctor says, "You have a child growing inside your heart. It is stillborn. We'll have to break you open to bury the body."_

_He is at his house, lying on the bed. His wife is standing at the foot. She says, "How could you do this? We tried so hard to have this baby, and you killed it. Why did you do this to our baby?"_

_He feels something moving inside of him; in his head he can see the body of the child, dark and twisted._

*****

He woke up not knowing where he was. He felt nauseous. After a second he remembered he was at Richard's. He sat up slowly, holding his head in his hands.

He tried not to go back to the dream, but it nagged at him. The thought of a stillborn baby…He shuddered. It wasn't real, he reminded himself. He and Jennifer had always been too busy to even think about having children. He muttered, "Just a dream," and got up to get dressed.

When he walked into the kitchen Richard was shaking pills into his hand from an aspirin bottle. He looked up at Greg. "Remind me I'm not seventeen anymore."

"You're not seventeen anymore," Greg said. "Is there any coffee?"

Richard pointed. "You should take some of these too." He slid the bottle down the counter.

"Thank you." Greg grabbed a mug from the cupboard and choked down two aspirin.

"It sounded like you had a rough time last night," Richard said casually.

"I'm sorry?"

"I got up in the middle of the night. Heard you thrashing about, muttering something. Like 'cut,' or 'cold,' something like that."

"Oh." Greg said. He stared into his coffee cup. "I just haven't been sleeping well lately. Sorry if it bothered you."

"Greg…" Richard picked at a spot on the cupboard. He turned back to Greg, his gaze suddenly direct. "Everything's all right with you back in the States? Nothing anyone should worry about?"

"Oh, yeah," Greg said automatically. "Everything's fine."

"And you’re sure about that?"

What Richard really wanted to ask, Greg knew, was "What the bloody hell were you doing with that girl last night?" It was a question he didn't want to answer. He was perfectly aware that he could have just told her, "Thank you, I appreciate it," and left. But he hadn't. And it was because he had wanted to bask in the girl's adoration for a while, because his ego had been flattered by her interest. He'd acted like a sleazy rock star. If he ever told Jennifer, she'd kill him.

It had been so easy to not think about Jennifer last night. It had been easy to let the girl's worship suck him in. What had happened to Jennifer and him? They'd been drifting apart lately, taking each other for granted. He couldn't remember when they had last spent any real time together. Maybe they should get away from working for a while, go on vacation and act irresponsible. If she still wanted to do anything with him, that was.

Greg sighed and looked up from the coffee cup, meeting his friend's eyes. "I don't know, Rich," he said softly. "I really don't know."

*****

The rest of the time with the Players passed quickly and he had to go back to the States. Saying goodbye to him at the door, Richard said, "Watch yourself back in magic America, all right? I mean it. We all care about you." And then, before it got too serious, said, "In our way, of course."

"I always get along, don't I?" Greg said, smiling, and went to get the rental car out of the garage.

Jennifer called him in New York after she put up the show, laughing with excitement. "I know, it could be a scene in a Jay McInerney book, but I like it. I'd forgotten how much I liked it. People wandering around drinking wine and eating crackers and talking very solemnly about your work. I should have lolled on a chaise lounge and smoked Gauloises and worn all black. It's a rush, Greg."

And he laughed with her and missed her terribly.

When he got home from New York, she came running out from her studio, a smear of purple paint across her chin. He still wasn't quite used to seeing her looking like a disheveled artiste; it was disconcerting, as though there were a stranger in his wife's place.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. "I've been horribly neglectful of you."

"No, you haven't."

"I mean it. I miss you. Want to go to Egypt with me?"

" _Egypt?_ " She leaned against him, shutting her eyes dramatically. "You must go. I'm expecting my husband."

"What's wrong with Egypt?"

"Greg, I clearly remember you saying, 'Egypt is full of insects that will suck out your eyeballs and then steal your car.'"

"I know. I'm gonna wear a Kevlar bodysuit the whole time. But you wanted to go."

She peered up at him suspiciously. "You're really not kidding."

"Nope. I'm totally and completely serious."

"What about work? I should really keep producing new stuff…"

"You can work on it when we come back, can't you? I can rearrange my schedule. I'm due for a few weeks off. Come on."

"Well…"

"Come on." He spun her around the living room awkwardly. "We'll see the Sphinx and eat falafel and look at all the pollution in the Nile. It’ll be great."

"It has been a while since we've had a vacation." He could see her eyes lighting up. "Stop spinning me. I'm getting nauseous."

"So you'll go?"

"Of course I'll go. What am I going to do, travel alone?"

It was one of the most peaceful times he could remember, planning the trip. What he loved about Jennifer was that she threw herself into everything headfirst. He always had a tendency to hang back, observing, while she tugged him along with her, her enthusiasm infectious. She sat cross-legged on their bed, frowning seriously at guidebooks, occasionally pointing something out to him. He started sleeping better, the nightmares receding. He felt like he had her back.

Two weeks before they left, he got a call from his manager.

"Greg, have you ever heard of a show called Lunar?"

"Yeah," Greg said. Lunar was one of the slew of late-night talk shows, supposedly hip and edgy. Another show for the insomniac pot-smoking crowd.

"How would you like to be a guest host?"

Greg blinked. "Um, what?"

"The regular host, what’s his name…" He could hear Melanie shifting papers. "Christopher, Chris something. He's on a movie shoot the week of the twenty-first. I know it's short notice, but it's perfect for you. Do some standup, a little interviewing, get some publicity…" She paused. "Money's not bad, either, for one week's work. It's just your style, Greg."

"I don't know." Greg said. "That fucking show tries so hard to be hip it's pathetic. It'll be off the air in two months."

"You'll bring in some new blood. It's a good gig, and you know it."

"Yeah," Greg said. "Wait a second. What's the date again?"

"The week of the twenty-first."

"This month?"

"Yeah. I know I said it was short notice."

"Melanie, I'll be gone. I'm supposed to go to Egypt with my wife in two weeks. I don't think I can make it. You already knew this."

"Maybe I did. But this was just so good, I didn't want you to miss it. You're always complaining to me about how you've had all this experience doing your Chat Show in Scotland and how you wish you could get more hosting work. And it's right here. You don't even have to leave town. It's good, Greg."

"I… _can’t_ …" He dragged his free hand through his hair, tugging at his forelock.

"Of course the decision's up to you," Melanie said. "I mean, they can always bring in someone else. Johnny Knoxville. That was the other name they mentioned."

"Hey!" Greg said. "Johnny Knoxville? Excuse me? Johnny Knoxville makes a fucking living getting shot in the nuts by tennis balls on MTV. I'm way funnier than him. And have you ever seen him do a fucking _interview_? Ever? He’s got nothing to offer. It would be," he slipped into his redneck accent, "'Hey, yuh ever tipped a cow?' Are you out of your _mind,_ Melanie?"

"Greg!" She was laughing. "I didn't suggest him, the producers did. Go yell at them."

"Goddamnit, Melanie, my wife's gonna kill me."

"Greg, if you do it, I'm sure she'll understand. You can always go to Egypt later."

"I guess."

"So, do you want to do it?"

He groaned. "Yeah."

"Great. I'll call them today."

"You want to call my wife and tell her we're not going on vacation, just while you're at it?"

"You can handle that yourself, buddy boy," she said lightly. "Don’t worry about it."

Greg hung up. "Fuck."

When he got home he went down to Jennifer's studio. She was staring at a canvas full of purples and blues and reds, scowling. She turned around when he shut the door.

"Hi!" When he didn't say anything, she said, "What is it?"

"I don't know how I'm going to make this up to you."

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me what it is."

"I got this gig. Lunar. One week's guest hosting."

"Greg, that's great. But what…"

"I took it when we were supposed to leave. I don't know if it's still possible to go to Egypt."

Jennifer looked at the floor and sighed, turning away from him.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No, no, I guess not." She moved over to her couch and sat down. "I mean, of course I'm disappointed, Greg, but if it's a good gig, it’s a good gig." She pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. "Maybe if it happens again, you could at least talk to me first before you decide?"

"Baby, I'm so sorry."

"We can always take another vacation," she said. "Get some real time alone."

He moved to the couch and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

She looked up and tried to smile. "It'll be okay."

He slunk out of the studio and went into the living room, where he sparked a joint and tried not to feel like an asshole.

*****

On the whole, he liked doing Lunar, even though he knew it didn't have much time left on the air. It was slightly irritating to try to make a coherent interview with some rock star (Greg had forgotten his name) who could barely string five words together, but Greg just gritted his teeth and chanted mentally, _It's work, it's work, it's work._

Jennifer had seemed to take the canceled trip in stride, continuing to send slides of her pictures to galleries, looking around for artist co-ops, keeping herself locked up in her little studio. _She takes a fucking lot in stride,_ he thought guiltily. This wasn't the first trip that he'd canceled. He'd had to miss her birthday a few times because he was performing. He knew it hurt her.

After the last taping of Lunar, he got into his car and tried to call her on the cell phone, but the line was busy. When he got home he went down to her studio and leaned in the doorway.

"I'm free and easy, babe. Where do you want to go?"

She laughed. "That sounds so much like a come-on."

"It is. I promise this time, no more work for at least two weeks. What's your fancy?"

"Oh, I don't know. How'd the taping go? You glad to be out of there?"

He straightened up. "You don't want to go anywhere."

"It's not that I don't want to, it's that I _can't._ There're a lot of jury shows coming up and I'd like to see if I can enter. There're some workshops at the co-op that I think I should take. I don't think I can shift my schedule around again."

"Of course you can. Can you do it after we get back?" Greg wheedled. "The art galleries in Paris are lovely this time of year."

"I don't think I should. I've been out of circulation for a long time, Greg. I've missed a lot. I need to get used to being an artist again."

"You've always been an artist."

"I mean a professional artist."

For some reason the word 'professional' stung. "You used to like going on trips with me."

"Honey, I always like going places with you. I was all ready to go on a trip with you three weeks ago, except plans changed. So I changed my plans right back. The way things are right now, I shouldn't even think about relaxing any time soon."

"Okay, okay, okay." He started backing out of the studio. "I'd go on a trip if you asked me to."

"No, you wouldn’t." She gave him a small, sad smile. "Greg, if there's anything I've learned, it's that work always comes first with you."

*****

_He is on his knees in the middle of a tunnel, digging with his hands in the dirt. He knows his wife is buried somewhere underneath, and if he doesn't find her, she'll disappear. The dirt is full of broken glass; as he keeps digging he realizes that it comes from a broken vase that is scattered throughout the ground. He digs and digs, trying to find her, but he knows he's run out of time._

*****

Greg sprawled on the couch, his foot on the table, stabbing a pair of chopsticks into a container of Chinese food. It took him a few minutes to pinpoint how he felt, exactly; the closest answer was bored. Every week was just like the week before; he didn't have Jennifer to talk to anymore, she was too busy. He never thought he'd get sick of takeout food, but after two months of eating the stuff, it all had a familiar taste to it: overcooked, overly salted shit. It could have been produced by a machine for all he knew.

He heard the front door open. Jennifer said, "Have I mentioned that I hate this city?"

"Yeah."

"I got turned down by three different reps today. Apparently my portfolio isn't what it could be. I said, 'Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? You do promotion for me so I can have more time to concentrate on getting it up to speed?' No, no. Nobody likes painters anymore. Maybe I should try doing more modern art type stuff. Like that woman who did the Bed piece. Ugh." She leaned over him and kissed him on the cheek. "Hi. How was your day?"

"All right."

"What are you eating?"

"Some chicken thing."

"Mmm. Get anything for me?" She headed into the kitchen.

"There’s rice and some vegetable sort of pancake thing."

Jennifer made a noise of distaste. "Do we have any leftovers around?"

"I think so."

"You're cranky tonight. Sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." He poked the chopsticks into the container again. Some indefinable yellow ooze seeped from the chicken. "I don't think I picked a good restaurant this time around."

He heard her opening something in the kitchen. "I'll say. This vegetable thing looks like it was in a nuclear accident."

"Remember when you used to cook stuff?" he said. "That was cool." It came out a little more snide than he meant it to.

He heard her take a breath, the kind she took when she was trying not to get angry. "You love takeout food. You eat it all the time."

"I still like it. I'm just getting tired of it."

"Well, why don't you make yourself something one of these nights? The stove can't be that difficult to operate."

"I like your food better."

"Greg, I’ve either been at the co-op or calling art galleries or getting turned down by reps all day. I'm not in the mood to come home and cook."

 _You used to,_ he wanted to say, but he didn't. He knew he would sound like an asshole. "You do it so much better than the restaurants do."

"This isn't even about my cooking, is it? It’s that I'm working."

"It is not."

"I think you're jealous."

"That's ridiculous. I’ve got nothing to be jealous of."

She came back in the living room. Her foot tapped a steady rhythm on the floor. "You want to come home like you used to and find me sitting on my butt waiting for you. Jesus, Greg."

He stood up. "Don't tell me what I want. You have no idea."

"Oh, bullshit. I know _exactly_ what you want. You liked it better when I had nothing else to do but be your wife. That's real progressive, Greg."

"I liked it when I had a _wife,_ period. Now I've got somebody who just waltzes in whenever she likes and couldn't give a shit."

"That's what you think? I don't give a shit?"

"Not about me, anyway."

"Awww." Her voice was mocking. "Poor baby. Greg, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are not four years old. You do not need me around twenty-four hours a day. I can't do that anymore."

" _Anymore?_ Jennifer, I've never asked that from you, ever. Jesus, what do you think I am?"

"Right now, I think you're an asshole."

"Well, I'd rather be an asshole than some dilettante wannabe-Picasso. Can't say the same for you, can I, Jennifer?"

She looked as if he'd hit her. She stared down at her hands. They were flecked with bits of blue paint. She didn't look up.

Greg knew he'd gone too far. He shut his eyes briefly, wondering if there was any way to take the words back. He wanted to take her in his arms and say, "I love you, I didn't mean it, forgive me, please, please, forgive me." He didn't. He couldn't. He had the sick knowledge that he'd said one thing she could never forgive him for.

"You just do whatever the hell you want," Jennifer said finally. She turned on her heel and started walking.

He followed her, guilt and anger swarming over him. "Goddamnit, would you please not walk away from me?"

"Don't you tell me what to do." She went into her studio and slammed the door. He heard it lock.

"Jennifer!" He slapped the door with the flat of his hand. "I just wanted to fucking _be_ with you."

All he could hear from behind the door was the muffled sound of her sobbing. "Jennifer," he said again, softer. She didn’t answer. He stood outside, waiting, and finally left her alone.

He stood in the middle of the living room, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. His wife was locked in her room crying, it was all his fault, and he was damned if he knew what to do about it. He picked the Chinese food container off the table and stared at it. Some of the grease had seeped through the container; it felt slimy. He pitched it hard against the wall. It exploded in a mass of chicken and noodles and cashews. They slid down the wallpaper, slowly.

*****

He sat in the makeup chair at Raleigh, waiting while the woman smeared gook on his face. He had gotten used to this process of people looking extremely closely and intently at him for however long it took, but he still felt struck by the absurdity of it all sometimes.

"Look at these dark circles," she said, pointing to his eyes. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

He gave her his 'I'm not in the mood for this now' look and she clucked her tongue. He shut his eyes.

Alone in the green room, twenty minutes before the taping started, his cell phone rang. Jennifer's voice crackled from the other end. He tensed.

"I'm going to be home late tonight. I'll leave a number if you need to reach me."

"Okay." He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "Where are you going to be?"

"Ivy's."

He assumed Ivy was someone from the artist co-op. She didn't volunteer any more information. She hadn't told him anything of interest in the past two weeks. For all purposes, they weren't talking, except to say where they'd be, or to snipe at each other. The rest of the time they tried to keep in as little contact as possible. He could feel her closing herself off to him.

"Jennifer," he said.

"What is it?"

"Please don’t go."

He heard her sigh. "I've got to." Her voice grew thinner suddenly, a sharp razor wire. "You can get along just fine without me for one night. Call up one of your buddies and see if they can cater to you."

"That's not fucking fair."

“Live with it.” She hung up. He lowered his head. _I don't need this right now, I don't need it…_ He felt his stomach knot. Of all the times to pick a fight, she had to do it right before he had to go out in front of three hundred people for four hours and try to be funny? He fought the urge to call her back and scream at her.

"Hey." Colin’s voice cut through the red haze of rage. "You about ready?"

Greg stood up. "Yeah, I'm coming."

He felt Colin's eyes appraising him. Shit. Colin was the member of the cast who was most in tune with what other people were feeling. If anyone could see through him, it was Colin.

"You okay?" The soft Canadian voice held nothing but concern. For a minute Greg was afraid he might lose it. _Oh, my marriage is just going to shit, how are you?_ Instead he set his shoulders back and smiled. "Yeah, everything's fine. No need to worry your pretty little head."

*****

"And it's a line drive for Bonds…"

Greg lay on his side on the couch, looking at the television. Dodgers five, Giants four. He was looking at another loss, he was sure of it.

He heard the door open and shut. He didn’t look up, but reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

He heard Jennifer's voice, soft, almost tentative. "Hi."

"What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty."

He didn't say anything. He had expected her back later.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see her lean over the couch. "You want something to eat?"

"No."

"I can make something."

He shoved himself into a sitting position. "No. You don't do that anymore, remember, Jennifer?"

She was silent a long time. Finally she moved to the chair opposite the couch and sat down. "That’s right, I don't, do I."

"As long as we've got that clear. And I'll tell you one thing.” The resentment began to bubble. "It takes some nerve to come in here and expect things to be peaches and fuckin' cream just because you offer to make me a fuckin' sandwich. You've made it abundantly clear that you're sick of that shit, and if you think that…"

"Greg." Her voice was quiet and numb. He stared at his hands.

"If you want this more, Jennifer, you're welcome to it."

"I don't want it more. I just…Greg, I can't just be your wife anymore. I can't have my life revolve around your gigs, or around you."

"When did your life ever revolve around me?"

She sighed. "What about every time you do a gig? 'I sucked tonight.' No, Greg, it was all right. 'Hardly anyone was laughing.' No, Greg, they liked you, I could hear them. 'You're just saying that because you're married to me.' Greg, you did fine. 'No, I didn't…'"

"Stop, please."

"Every night for years and years, Greg." There was no resentment in her voice, just a calm stating of fact. "You needed it. You needed that support constantly, even when you were doing well. There wasn't any room for you to encourage me."

"I wasn't that bad."

"Sweetie, you were happiest when I was being your wife. And the only problem is that I couldn't do much else when I was being your wife."

"We got to travel." His voice held a desperate edge. "We went all over the world together. I could support you…"

Jennifer stood up. "I would have liked to have had children, Greg. But I knew it wasn't part of your plan."

The words hit him like a slap. "You never fucking _talked_ to me about it." But he still knew she was right. He hadn't wanted children, and he had assumed that she wanted the same thing, because she was his wife. He lowered his head into his hands.

*****

_He stands in a club, waiting to go on stage. The emcee gives him a microphone, but when he tries to talk into it, it swallows his words, silencing him. The emcee says, "You need to fix it. You've screwed it up."_

_He goes back to San Carlos, back to his old house, to see if he can find another microphone. He goes up to his old room and begins to search. Someone pounds on the door. He thinks it might be someone who wants to help him, but he doesn’t want any help. The pounding continues. He ignores it. It doesn't let up, just keeps getting louder and louder. Finally he gets up and opens the door._

_A dark shape, twisted and half-demonic, leaps into the room, knocking him down. He brings his arms over his head to protect himself, but it won't let up. He feels his clothing tear. He tries to roll over, but it rakes its claws across his face, leaving a red mark._

_He gropes on the floor and finds a club. The thing keeps hitting him. He brings up the club and strikes the thing as hard as he can._

_It stops hitting him and begins to scream. The scream fills the room, a wailing, desperate sound. He tries to cover the thing's mouth, but it just keeps screaming and screaming._

He shot awake, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his knees. Jennifer was lying beside him, which was a shock. They hadn't slept in the same bed for what seemed like forever. He reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table and lit up.

She stirred and looked at him.

"Did I wake you?" He stubbed the cigarette out.

"No. Are you okay?"

He was going to say something sarcastic but he was just too tired and sad. He shook his head.

An expression of sympathy, almost of pity, crossed her face. "The dreams again?"

"Yeah."

She sat up. "Come on, lie down. I'll give you a back rub."

"Is this another way to try to weasel back into my good graces?" Instantly he regretted it. Her mouth thinned with anger. He said, "Honey, I'm sorry. Go to sleep, you've got to be tired."

"Just lie down."

He laid on his stomach. She straddled the back of his legs and began to knead the muscles in his back and neck. Every time she touched him, he flinched with pain.

"No wonder you're not sleeping well," she said. "You're one big knot."

"I suppose because my job is so physically demanding." She touched a point at the small of his back; he felt it spasm. " _Ow._ "

"Sorry." She stroked the point. It was the first time she had touched him gently in weeks. He felt a flicker of desire. "You're really tense," she said. "I feel like I can't touch you without hurting you." She rolled off of him.

Greg sat up stiffly. She sat with her back turned to him, her feet on the floor. "It's okay. I appreciate it."

His wife began to cry.

He felt horrible. "Jennifer, honey, don't. It's not your fault." He put his hands out to try to soothe her, then drew them back. "It’s okay."

"No, it's not," she said. She turned back, her eyes desperate and shining with tears. "Greg, I love you so much…"

He awkwardly pulled her into his arms. "I love you too."

"But it's not enough anymore," she said softly. "It’s just not enough."

The resignation in her voice scared him. "Jennifer, whatever you're thinking of, don't. Please. Everything's all my fault. I'll fix it. I can fix it. Just, please…"

"No." She kissed his shoulder. "I can't give you what you need."

" _Please._ "

"I love you, Greg, and I'm so sorry."

In that one moment, he knew he'd lost her. She'd already decided what she was going to do.

They made love, for the first time in a while, their bodies pressed flat against each other. He did not want to look at her eyes and see the pain there. Her body was soft and edgeless, fading into the bed.

When he woke up the next morning, she was gone. He left the house at ten; when he came back, eight hours later, half the house seemed to have been cleared out.

*****

Changing in the dressing room at Raleigh, Colin said to him, "You know, you look like crap."

"Colin, if one more person asks me how I am, I'm going to break my staunch good liberal policy and go buy a gun. I'm okay. I just need a vacation." Greg was leaning up close to the mirror, wiping his makeup off; the cloth was coming away tinged with beige.

"Couldn't hurt." Colin reached for his jacket. "You want to have dinner one of these days, while I'm still in town?"

"Ehhh. I've got a lot of stuff coming up,” Greg said. "Not a lot of time for socializing."

"How's Jennifer feel about that?"

Greg winced. He still hadn't gotten around to telling people that his wife had left. He had spent the last month telling people on the phone that they had just missed her. He didn't answer Colin for a little too long.

"Greg?"

"I don't know how she feels about it." Greg said finally. "I haven't seen her."

"What?"

Greg shrugged. "Haven't seen her. She's not in the house anymore."

Colin stopped putting on his jacket. "Oh, God, Greg. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, you know. What can you do?"

"You two were inseparable. I never thought…"

"I don't know. I thought a lot of things, too, once." Greg smiled. "I'm all right. She'll get back in touch with me when she wants to."

Colin walked over to the mirror and patted his back. "If you ever need to talk…"

"Thanks, Col. But I'm really okay."

"Sure you are," Colin said, but didn’t push it.

Greg fought the traffic back to his house and walked in the door, almost tripping over the mail. He cursed and knelt down to pick it up. The usual bills, junk mail, some other stuff…

There was a letter to him from a lawyer's office. He recognized the name. It was a divorce attorney.

Greg hadn't thought about this. He hadn't expected to come home and actually find a letter from a divorce attorney on his doorstep. Even after a month of coming home to an empty house, he had still expected to walk in one day and find her there.

She wasn't coming home.

He threw the letter on the couch. She wasn't coming home. He wasn't going to walk in and find her scowling at a painting. She wasn't going to sit and watch movies with him on the couch anymore. She wasn't going to sing little scraps of songs when she took her shower in the morning. She wasn't going to wake him up in the middle of the night and say, "You know, I think 'peanut' is a really bizarre word." She wasn't going to let him bounce jokes off her anymore, she wasn't coming to any more of his gigs, she just wasn't coming home again, ever.

Greg stood over the couch, his hands braced against it, staring at the letter and sobbing. He could hear himself choking. His throat ached.

Finally he took a deep breath and went to wash his face. He studied himself in the mirror. His face was white and swollen, but it was still his face. He could recognize himself in the reflection. He was damaged, but he wasn't destroyed.

He ran cold water over his eyes and went back to the living room, where he moved the letter to the coffee table, curled up on the couch and fell asleep.


End file.
